No more 'Happily Ever Afters'
by Kyashii.Is.Silver
Summary: Sasuke, 18 and living in a small apartment in NY, decides to apply to college. But when he realizes Itachi’s his new English professor and has a thing for his little brother, things start to heat up.
1. Prologue

Prologue

There is not always a happy ending.

Every Cinderella has her prince, her sunset, her glass slipper. Every Rapunzel has her flowing dress, her golden hair, her castle. Every Beauty has her prince-turned beast, her happily ever after.

I may have gotten the beast, but where was my happily ever after?

I'll start at the once upon a time.

--

Life had never been easy for me. I grew up in a home devoid of anything remotely similar to love, where I was always trying to capture the recognition of those important to me who never even spared a glance. Sure, my mother would coddle me – like all mothers do – but she didn't matter. Father was most important to me. He always told me to do better, to try harder, to be like Brother. Oh, how many times he compared me to Brother. In his eyes I was an insignificant speck of light in the shadow of my aniki; if only he would step out of the way, I would be given the chance to shine so bright it would blind them all!

But he never did step out of the way. He just made sure no one was there to see me when I /did/ have the chance to outshine him. It was easy for him: I was heading home, it was dark, they were alone. Two gunshots, the neighbors reported. Mother through the back of the skull with an exit wound over her left eye; Father right in the middle of the forehead, bullet lodged in the brain. I wasn't there to see the smoke rising from the mouth of the gun, but I was there to see the blood.

The blood that still splatters my nightmares, drips down my thoughts, stains my "perfect porcelain" hands, as he once described them. He used to describe a lot of my body parts as "perfect." And pale, like moonlight. He said I was so flawless for such a tainted seven-year-old.

And why should he be allowed to gaze upon my alleged flawlessness when he tried so desperately to ruin it? When he saw something in me he couldn't surpass and attempted to stain it scarlet as his hands soon would be?

Life was harder after that. I changed foster homes like clothes; I would not, absolutely screaming/kicking not, stay in the home of someone who was under the sad misconception that they understood what I was going through. I refused with all my might to open up to the social workers with the bittersweet words and cold glass smiles who said they only wanted to help me. Help me? Ha! Good one!

They called me a "tough case." Hell, I was. That entire chapter of my life was a fight against the world: fight the man, beat the system. Well, it turned out the system was a little too extensive to beat, but I tolerated. I kept my mouth shut, bided my time, and waited eleven years for the day I'd be free.

But that was then.

This is now, and this is where my story begins.


	2. Chapter 1

chapter one

My apartment was, by no means, "cozy." Just small. For the rent I was paying, it wasn't bad, but still – I could cross the room with seven or eight steps. All there was room for (or that I could afford) were a couple of chairs around a cheap wooden table that currently served as my office desk, a decent-sized TV with my beloved Nintendo 64 (oldschool is hardcore) attached, and a futon with a pleasing-to-the-eye sky blue spread on which I: a) spent hard gaming hours, b) masturbated, c) slept, or d) all of the above.

The lack of furniture or items to garnish the bare walls (it didn't even have wallpaper, for god's sake) created a bit of a cold feel; nonetheless, this was what I called home. The hardwood floors creaked slightly under my feet as I approached the bathroom, eyes sliding around the room as if I was afraid someone was going to pop out at me from the semi-darkness and sink a dagger into my chest.

Hey, I had good enough reason to be afraid. This was New York City.

I walked in, left the door open. Stared at myself dully in the mirror. Hell, how could I still look that good after making my way through the goddamn subway? With the pushy people in those crowds, you could go in fresh out of the salon and come out looking fresh out of the alleyway. My hair might have been a little ruffled, but otherwise I looked fine. Silently I popped the gauges out of my ears and laid them on the counter, ready for another day of guiding lost souls to their stupid emo bands. "Fall Out Boy? That'd be in the 'F' section of rock/pop, ma'am. Over there, after the 'E' section." It's not rocket science, people.

Yeah, I worked in a CD store. FYE. Hey, it was the only place I could dress the way I liked and get away with listening to perfectly good (albeit a little overdramatic) music. I wasn't particularly fond of the whole wrist-slitting, blood tear-crying emo scene, but it was the best I could do. I dressed a lot like 'em, actually, what with my black ensemble of a tight-fitting tee, belt with its buckle off to the side, slightly skinny jeans, and various arm/wrist bands – didn't mean I acted like the fuckers. If you ever see Uchiha Sasuke walking down the sidewalk with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a hoodie shadowing his face, and his eyes glued to the ground, you better run like hell 'cuz the Apocalypse is upon us.

Nevertheless, I put up with the overdramatic bastards every day for the minimum wage that got me this dingy apartment. I would've gotten something better-paying, of course, if I could; but what well-paying job would take an eighteen-year-old kid with a nothing but a high school diploma?

I suppose I should have applied for college a while ago. My teachers used to say I had "potential" to get in somewhere awesome what with my good grades and all, but I had been offered no scholarships and tuition was just too much. Besides, how could I afford a dorm/put up with a likely assholish roommate/be able to still keep my apartment even though I wasn't living in it – all while paying for the stuff I did now, like food and toiletries and other necessary household items? I sighed. Looks like college was out of the question.

Wellll, I always did have that bank account my parents used to have that I just recently gained access to thanks to my coming of age... But I'd been saving that for emergencies, like if I got evicted or had to up and leave in a matter of minutes (hey, it wasn't my fault my entire life was centered on an ambition that would likely get me the death sentence).

...I guess you could call this an emergency: I was barely making enough money to pay for a cramped little apartment, my breakfast and dinner both consisted of some kind of fruit (or cold pizza if I was lucky), and my lunch was nonexistent; still, I didn't even know how much I'd have left to pay for my apartment and all that. Would I even have time to work on the weekends? Then I'd make even less... Damn. I didn't even know how much was in that bank account – could it support me for two years without me having to bleed it dry?

Well, I suppose, things have to get worse before they get better. And

if I continued this lifestyle, I'd spiral down until I ended up on the streets.

So, college it was.

Now the question was: which one?

I had a few options. I couldn't afford to travel, so it'd have to

be around here. There was always the state university, but private colleges are sometimes better...and it'd be harder to get in since everyone applies to the state.

I guess I should first decide what I wanted to major in. I honestly hadn't given that much thought to where I saw myself for the rest of my life: I'd always had a talent for writing, but freelance writers don't make much and I couldn't rely on one book... Video game tester? Nah, I can't stand those new consoles... Actor? Then everyone would know I was gay.

Maybe I should just go with what I was best at. Besides, I'm already used to hanging from one measly paycheck to the next...being a freelance writer or a creative poet might not be so bad. It might be a little dangerous to have people know your name when your very reason for living is to murder, but I could get an alias. Not like anyone would recognize my style if I started publishing again in England or somewhere, anyway. It would help if I majored in English, right? It'd look good on my resume...yeah. I'd go for English.

Once my various wristbands and spiked bracelets lie on the counter and my hair was fixed, I made my way back to the living room and settled myself at my desk. I pulled my laptop closer and pressed fingers to the keys, deep in thought. I wouldn't work tomorrow, so I could afford to stay up tonight and do some research. Within twelve hours' time, I would know where I was going to spend my next two years as a teen. I glanced at the digital clock resting on top of the TV: five minutes to midnight.

Hello, the first day of the rest of my life.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter two

I know I shouldn't have done it, but I did. I stayed up until around four researching, and since I was accustomed to waking up in the AM, I knew I would want to salvage as much sleep as I could. Still, that didn't keep me from grabbing one of those trusty little square packages with a miraculous mixture of polyurethane and latex stored inside and burying myself under the sheets of my stained old futon. A good half hour of sleep lost from that alone (teasing, amirite?) and even more from the depressing thought process that resulted.

Well, if you jacked off to thoughts/fantasies of the one that shattered your life into a million tiny little pieces, your own flesh and blood, you'd lose sleep over it, too.

But, I mean, I couldn't help it! If it was up to me, don't you think I would stop lusting after the one I tried so hard to hate from the bottom of my very soul?! I was suppose to loath him, despise him, execrate him – instead I endeared him. Where was the alleged hate in my soul that everyone said they could read so perfectly in my dark eyes, the only emotion that ever flickered across my face in the presence of others? Where was that hot feeling that washed me out every time I thought about what he did to me, making me clench my hands into fists and dig my nails into my palm to control my feelings? Instead I had that hot feeling that washed me out every time I thought about what I wanted him to /do/ to me, making me clench my hands into fists and dig my nails into my palm to control the thoughts that made my pulsing blood flow to my face (some people mistook the flushed face for anger, but as long as they stayed away I wasn't complaining) and my lower regions.

It wasn't fair.

Nothing in life is fair, I suppose.

Thanks to my little bout of lust and angst, I woke up a few minutes before ten (accustomed to waking at seven – damn you, sleep pattern) feeling pissed. Look out, world, Uchiha Sasuke's /angry/. Again. Not that I didn't always act like it, but when I was like this anyone who talked to me would be lucky if I didn't rip their face off. Hell, passerby who bumped into me were likely to get their heads bitten off.. Even coffee wouldn't calm me in this mood.

Not quite feeling up to staring at a computer screen for hours, I figured I should go out and vent my feelings on a few unfortunate strangers. I needed to buy more food anyway, though every penny spent stung my eyes and my wallet. Everything was getting more expensive nowadays, anyway... I could survive on granola bars and coffee, but even the cost of that was rising. Tch.

Either way, I needed to get that bottled-up feeling in my chest out somehow.. Off I went to the bathroom, starting the long and excruciating process of getting dressed.

One shower later, I had to start the process of blowdrying my hair, then combing it out so it perfectly resembled the behind of a mallard (don't ask me, I don't understand my fashion sense either); carefully pulling a Misfits shirt over my head so as not to ruin the hair I just spent so much time on; stepping into slightly baggy black pants and securing them with a studded belt; doing a bit of a careless job of applying eyeliner to give myself a ragged look to go with my mood; brushing my teeth, which was pointless because I hadn't eaten since before the last time I brushed them; sliding on and/or fastening seven wrist/armbands (four on my left, three on my right); tugging on an old pair of Converse that was falling apart; and finally securing a spiked collar around my pale neck. By the time I left my apartment, wallet stuffed in my back pocket, it was well past noon.

My way to the Publix down the street was routine as per usual. You had the well-dressed guys in suits, sometimes carrying briefcases, yapping into their expensive cell phones, surely ordering someone important around as they made their commute to lunch; you had the groups of giggling girls who often stopped and pointed at "cute" guys, waved at people they recognized, and generally blocked sidewalk traffic; you had the tourists tugging at their collars (didn't think it'd be so hot in New York in summer, didja, stupid foreigners?) while flashing cameras at the skyscrapers and huge brand-name displays we residents had long ago learned to ignore; and, of course, the loners in clothing much too dark to physically handle this heat, meandering along without even bothering to weave their way through crowds with their hands stuffed in their pockets, most likely kicked out or under the sad misconception that they could salvage whatever small amount of melanin they had left in their skin/sanity they had left in their locked-up little rotating minds. Like me. Only I was out for groceries, not to tan or make an attempt to grab at the sanity that abandoned me long ago.

But I didn't bother to move along with the crowd, either. Today, the crowd parted around me. When I'm pissed, anyone within a ten-meter radius could /feel/ it. The waves of anger radiated from me and washed over those standing in the way like the sea, and I enjoyed every moment of it.. Every little kid's look of fear so obvious on their innocent faces when they looked up and saw the raw emotion scratched onto mine. Every cautious step around me when a tenant caught sight of my hunched-up posture, the fire in my eyes as I glanced around in search of a new target.

I was halfway to the store when one of those groups of girls decided

they could have some fun with me. Even behind all my anger and

inhumanity, they still somehow saw this 'hot' badass I couldn't find no

matter how hard I looked. I wasn't anything they said; they had to be

under some kind of illusion to tell me these things and not be lying. I

was weak, I was fucked up, I was corrupted. I was ugly, inside and out.

These girls, scantily clad in bubblegum pinks and lime greens and foolishly oblivious to my anger, stopped to point at me, whispered a bit, giggled, and started to approach. Funny, most people were running /away/ from me.

Immediately I tensed up. I guess they took it as a sign of nervousness, because the first one – the 'lucky' one they called her, the 'victim' I declared mentally – spoke softly, invitingly. I stopped in my tracks and she circled around me so we were face-to-face; though I did not want to, I looked up. I sneered. This girl, with curled brunette locks falling over her lightly tanned shoulders, probably thought she was absolutely gorgeous to me – drop dead gorgeous (I'd like her to drop dead alright) – judging by the smirk on her glossed lips and the hand (freshly painted fingernails) resting on her jutted-out hip. Her shirt was low-cut and her jeans were hip-huggers, but I failed to care.

"Hey, you look /lonely/ all by yourself...wanna walk with us?"

Her eyelids were half-closed, and she stared up at me expectantly through long (probably mascara'd) eyelashes. She probably thought she sounded /sexy/.

I barked out what might be mistaken for a laugh. Even to me it sounded inhuman. I could see her flinch back some, but she stood her ground, expression shifting to a more challenging note. Oh, so she thought I was some tough shell it was her duty to crack? She actually thought she might have a chance of getting to me, like I would be putty in her hands if she just pressed the right places?

She had a nasty surprise in store.

The others were all watching in suspense, clutching their handbags and each other with eager ditsy-looking grins on their faces. I shot them an acidic look; they shrunk back a bit.

Looking back to the girl, I said nothing. She laughed. "Oh, I suppose I was a bit rude!" Laughed some more. Nervous. My eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry. My name's Vivian." She extended a dainty hand out to me, offering a smile. I did not move. My lips remained in a tight line, eyes staring down at her patronizingly. Her smile faded into a determined frown.

"And you would be...?"

"Not interested."

That would've normally been enough to scare one off, but it seemed her 'possy' waiting behind her gave her the courage to stand strong. She straightened up. She spoke again, her tone slow and deliberating as if I had to be retarded in order to reject her, her voice as smooth and slow as molasses.

"Look, I'm not /forcing/ you to do anything, but I'm just saying you'd have an awful lot of fun with us if—"

"Look, /Vivian, most people would have the sense enough to back away when their new target glares them down with eyes that scream 'go away' louder than he ever would have been able to. Even people as blind as you could see that I want to be fucking left /alone/ when I refuse to even give you my name; but no, you're apparently stupid enough to try and advance on me even after being outright rejected just because you've got a couple of your girlfriends standing behind you, eyeing me like I'm a piece of fucking meat. I don't know how you would think I'd like that, but I actually enjoy being treated as a real human being rather than something to gawk at and play with like a fucking toy. Your ditsy little brain might not be able to handle all that at once, so I'll spell it out for you: I. Don't. Like. You. No matter how sexy you think you are, unless you want my foot shoved up your ass I suggest you and your little slutty girlfriends get lost quickly."

That shut her up.

They stared at me, frozen, a couple with their mouths agape. Looked even more stupid than they already did.

I turned away and stalked off without a glance back.

--

That rant along with the slight tantrum I had in the grocery store that earned me ten percent off some coffee (thank god for coupons, expired or not) calmed me down a bit, but I was still in no mood to socialize. The moment I got back, I locked my door and shoved the groceries in the cabinet, then plopped down on the couch for some quality gametime. I was still working on the Water Temple in Ocarina of Time, and once I got past that, there would be only a few more dungeons before I completed it for the twelfth time. (Hey, I had a lot of spare time...) It always was my least favorite dungeon, what with having to navigate through multiple floors while adjusting water levels, constantly switching iron boots on and off, and being defenseless while walking underwater through swarms of octarocs and whatever the hell else lurked down there...but the miniboss battle made up for it. There was just something about the hero having to face his shadow, the incarnation of all his sins and dark aspects of his personality, the pessimism and sadism and nastiness and /hate/ that formed his dark side, mirroring his every move... Somehow it just appealed to me.

I could go at this for a while, and then tomorrow it would be Sunday. I was never religious (what kind of God would let this happen to me?), so there was nothing special I had to do – no church, no friends to hang out with, no money to spend. I had asked for shifts on the weekend since I had extra time left over and was still short on money, but my boss, Kin, didn't want to have to pay for more employees than was needed. So here I was stuck with two free days and nothing to do when I could be earning a living. Goddammit.

Well, at least I had my video games. And in a few months, I'd have homework. Oh, yeah – speaking of that, I had decided to try and apply to the state college. My SAT scores from Lord knows how many years ago in high school would be pretty impressive, I surmised, but without much on my resume extracurricular-wise, I would have to rely solely on that. Not a great-looking outcome, but I had to try.

I was nothing if I didn't try.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: I /had/ the chapters up earlier, but my publisher here is a (very sexy) PROCRASTINATOR...and there was some confusion with getting the chapters to her as well. So sorry for the pause, guys, here you go

Sunday saw me at the library. The college provided printable applications online but I couldn't print a thing with my laptop, so I had to pay like .15 to print out a piece of paper. Ridiculous.  
The rest of the day I spent trying to embellish it. With the number of student applications they must get, mine would have to stand out pretty tall to even get looked out. I'd never been one for volunteer work or extra-curricular activities – I might've mentioned that before – so I had to really dig around in the recesses of my mind where even I sometimes dared to tread in order to unearth bits and pieces of memories I'd tried to forget. There were a couple families who were "concerned" for me and pushed me into a couple after-school things: drama was the only thing I had liked. I got to be someone else for a change, I got to try on a different mask than the usual phlegmatic, impassive one I wore daily. But of course I'd never admit to actually enjoying anything other than sulking and brooding.  
I thought for a while about lying and saying I'd taken a couple more courses, or perhaps a few more years for one I'd only take a couple of months; but colleges had ways to trace these things. If you looked like a good candidate, they looked into you, man. That was one thing I hated: all my grades and classes and scores being scrutinized, my character being judged completely by that alone. I was a goddamn /person, not a bunch of numbers.

Ah, well. That was the game of college, I suppose. I'd heard a couple rumors about interviews and whatnot, but what did I know? I'd never applied to college before, and nothing on the internet gave a clear or consistent view of things. I'd just have to sit and wait, I guess.

After a few frustrating hours, my application was completed. I leaned back in my chair and surveyed it, skimming over it a few times in search of spelling errors or things that could be improved; I found none. Satisfied, I reached for an envelope and my only sheet of stamps (I didn't get the opportunity to send mail very often as I had no friends, so what was the point in wasting money on stamps?). The walk down to the mailboxes and back up to my apartment proved uneventful (with the exception of that godawful irritating pink-haired girl staring at me again), as did the rest of my day. The remaining seven hours I spent brooding and Zelda...ing – nothing too out of the ordinary. Well, I got through the Water Temple, at least. Damn Morpha.

I went to bed early that night so I could gain a few extra hours sleep and retain the ability to be polite to the customers tomorrow. Maybe I'd get a couple dollars bonus as a result. ...Well, unlikely, but it was nice to hope, right?  
Although hope was something I'd abandoned long ago. Hope gets you nowhere. It only makes the end result more devastating when it's crushed; and it's not as if I'd be able to kill that man just by hoping, would I? I'd have to actually /do/ something about it. I didn't hope I would be able to kill him – I /knew/ I would.

And that was the thought that comforted me to sleep.

The next week went by pretty normally. Wake up, go to work, go home and pretend not to be anxious as I check my mailbox, push away the disappointment when the letter doesn't come, play some Zelda, and go to sleep.  
Every day my chances of getting an answer increased, and as a result the growing sense of anxiousness and suspense began to get suffocating. My entire future could likely rest on this one letter – whether I'd spent it in this measly apartment, barely getting by, or climbing a few steps on the social ladder...and, if I was to be fair with myself, making a few friends. I'd promised myself to never get close to anyone, as bonds like that could only restrain and limit me, but... I'd always seen the world happen around me, if you know what I mean. I would be just standing there in a state of inertia and the entire world would be moving, going, gone. Everyone paired up and entwined themselves in an intricate network of friends, with support and sympathy always available, with a shoulder to cry on always at the ready. I had lost these things long ago, and a small part of me felt like I'd be betraying my parents if I let anyone else take their spot...was I wrong in doing so? Should I mold to fit with the crowd and let the walls surrounding my heart break down so I could experience that thing they called /love/?

...Once I served my purpose in life. Once I had killed him, I could kill my current self as well. Destroy this impassive, emotionless Sasuke and start anew...perhaps. After living my entire life like this, I don't know if I could even try.

All this was swimming through the fog in my mind during the walk home one fateful Tuesday. By this point I wasn't even deceiving myself into thinking I could get the letter; I didn't need more disappointment and suspense clouding my thoughts. But as I pried open the box that read 'Uchiha' across the front in generic courier letters, my breath caught in my throat and my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

I tried to look uninterested as I stuffed the neat letter in my pocket, tried not to look in a hurry as I made my way up the many flights of stairs (since when had there been this many?) leading to my apartment. But as soon as I was safe with the door locked, I practically threw myself at my futon and ripped open the envelope, bracing myself for probably another big disappointment.

I unfolded the crisp piece of paper as delicately as if it would break apart in an instant.

It read...


	5. Chapter 4

"Dear Sasuke Uchiha,

We at New York State University are proud to state that you have been accepted into our two-year curriculum.Please select your courses from the choices below; you are allowed a minimum of two and a maximum of five. The classes recommended specifically for you are listed."


End file.
